Виктория Холт - The Queen’s Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

At this time her aim was to poison the relationship between my father and me. It may have been because she thought he might yet turn me into a Catholic and so jeopardize my way to the throne and, as my attendant, she would be without the benefits accompanying such a position. Or it might have been that, disliking me as she did, she could not bear that I should know such happiness from a love the like of which I imagine could never have been hers.

When one of the courtiers began acting strangely and it was said that he was suffering from a bout of madness, Elizabeth remarked that he reminded her of Sir John Denham.

One of the younger girls asked who Sir John Denham was.

It was obviously what Elizabeth had expected, and she said quickly: “It was something which happened some time ago. It was very unsavory and perhaps best forgotten, though there will always be people to remember it.”

“Oh yes,” said Anne Villiers. “Whenever Sir John’s name is mentioned, people will remember.”

“Do tell us what happened,” begged Henrietta.

And then I heard the story of Sir John Denham.

It had started in the year 1666, just after the Great Fire. Sir John Denham had gone mad suddenly and thought he was the Holy Ghost. He even went to the King to tell him so.

Henrietta and Maria Villiers giggled at the thought and my sister joined in.

Elizabeth reproved them rather primly.

“It is not a joke,” she said. “It was very serious and you should not laugh at the misfortunes of others.”

“It was due to his wife, was it not?” said Anne Villiers. “He had married her when she was eighteen and he was a very old man. You can guess what happened. She had a lover.”

Elizabeth was giving me a covert glance, so I guessed what was coming.

“Sir John was so upset,” she went on, “that he went mad. And then she died. It was said she was poisoned. The people blamed Sir John at first. They gathered outside his house and called on him to come out that they might show him what they did to murderers. The people are fickle. When he gave his wife a fine funeral and wine was served liberally to all the people who had come to see her buried, instead of attacking him, they said he was a good fellow and it must have been someone else who murdered his wife.”

“Who?” asked Henrietta.

“I really do not think we should talk of this,” put in Elizabeth. “It is not really a very pleasant subject.”

“But I want to know,” said Henrietta.

“You are not to . . .” Elizabeth made a great show of embarrassment, as though forcing herself to be silent.

Sarah looked at her cynically. Sarah was more shrewd than the rest of us. That was why she and Elizabeth were so wary of each other. I wondered whether she would discuss the case of Sir John Denham with my sister when they were alone together. Anne might be too indolent to ask, but she seemed to be listening with interest; I supposed it would depend on whether Sarah wanted Anne to know.

I did bring the matter up with Anne Trelawny. I trusted her completely and it was always a joy to talk over things with her, because she never tried to impose her will on mine.

“Do you remember all that talk about Sir John Denham who thought he was the Holy Ghost?”

“Oh yes,” said Anne reluctantly. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Round about the time of the Great Fire.”

“I thought they said she died the year after the Fire.”

“She had a lover.”

“They said so.”

“Who was it?”

“Oh, people will talk!”

“Was it my father?”

Anne blushed and I went on: “I guessed it was by the way Elizabeth Villiers talked.”

“She’s a sly creature, that one. I had even rather have Sarah Jennings, though I must say she can be a trial, and I could well do without her.”

“What happened? Was there a big scandal?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“And my father?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

I said: “I now know about Arabella Churchill. She is still with him, is she not?”

“Both the King and the Duke can remain faithful to those who really mean something to them. The King had been very friendly with Lady Castlemaine for some years and there is this play actress, Nell Gwynne.”

“Pray do not change the subject, Anne. I said I want to know. One of the Villiers girls said that when Sir John provided the wine, someone else was accused of the murder.”

“They had to blame someone.”

“My father?”

“No ... not your father.”

“Then whom did they blame?”

“Well ... they said ... your mother . . .”

“My mother! She would never have done such a thing!”

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, the post mortem proved that Lady Denham had not been poisoned at all. So it was a lot of lies.”

“Not all,” I said. “I suppose Sir John did go mad and his wife did take a lover, and that lover was . . .”

“Dear Lady Mary,” said my friend Anne. “You must see the world as it really is. You cannot shut your eyes to the truth. Your father is not unlike the King in this. They were both born to love women. It is part of their natures. I sometimes think that the King is so greatly loved because of this weakness. He is the people’s charming, wayward King. He has so much that is good in him and must be forgiven this foible. And as for your father, he loves you dearly, as you love him. This love between you is a precious thing, the best you will ever know until you have a husband who will love you, too. Accept what is good in life. Do not allow others to influence your feelings toward those you love.”

“I wanted him to be perfect, Anne.”

“No one is that. Life is very rarely perfect and never for long. If you are going to savor the best of it, accept what cannot be changed and enjoy it while you are able. When you have learned to do that you have mastered as valued a lesson as ever Bishop Compton can teach you.”

My father came to see me. He wanted to be alone with me and I knew he had something of great importance to tell me.

“My dearest daughter,” he said. “I want to talk to you very seriously. I know you are young, but I want you to try to understand the position in which I find myself.”

I nestled closer to him. No matter what evil stories I heard about his relationships with women, I still loved him the same. To me he was always the tender loving father, and whatever he felt for those women did not touch us.

“You must know that the King cannot get children,” he began.

I wrinkled my brows. I had often heard that this woman or that was going to have the King’s child.

He noticed this and went on: “No child who could inherit the throne. The Queen, it seems, cannot produce one. Now this is of some significance to us. I am the King’s brother and, if he were to die ... Oh, do not look alarmed ... he is not going to die for a long time. He is hale and hearty. But there are those who say, yes, but suppose there was a riding accident ... some mishap. Who knows in this life? And if your uncle died tomorrow ... well, we must be prepared. I should be king then.”

“I know that,” I said.

“Well, I have two beautiful daughters and God knows I love them well, but the country looks for sons. People have this obsession for the masculine sex. That is a custom. They will take a woman, yes, but they would rather a man and they maintain that it is the duty of the heir to the throne to get sons if he possibly can.”

“My mother is dead now,” I said.

He looked mournful. “Alas,” he murmured. “But that is why they expect me . . .” He paused and, gripping my hand firmly, he went on: “to marry again.”

“To marry? Whom would you marry?”

“Ah! That is the question. The matter is being raised. Believe me, my love, there are many who would like to give birth to the heir of England. So I must needs put the past behind me. I must take a wife. I must show them that I will do my best to give them an heir.”

I could not help thinking: you will do that with ease. If Arabella Churchill, with the enticing legs, were your wife you could have several already. I did not say that. It would have wounded him deeply. He would not want me to know of such matters. But I kept thinking of my mother, with the pain in her face just before she died, and at that time he was Arabella Churchill’s lover.

These thoughts persisted, and I remembered what I had heard about the days when they were young and in exile at the court of the Princess of Orange, and how my father had fallen in love with my mother and proposed marriage to her. Then there came the Restoration and the Duke of York was no longer a wandering exile, and the marriage, which might have been acceptable when he had been, was no longer suitable for the brother of the King. There had been opposition, but my father had remained true to his word. I had liked that story. It fitted in with the image of him which I had created for myself.

And now he was going to marry again, so that he could get an heir to the throne because, although he already had my sister and me, boys were preferable.

“So you see, my dearest,” he was saying, “your father must do his duty. I hope you will like your new mother.”

“I could not have another mother,” I said. “I had one and I have lost her.”

He nodded and looked mournful again. Perhaps I was growing cynical, but I fancied he was not displeased at the prospect of having a new wife.

It might be that she would be young and beautiful, so that he would not have need of those others.

* * *

EVERYONE WAS TALKING about the proposed marriage of the Duke of York. It was freely discussed by the girls. There seemed to be no reason to be discreet about it, even though he was the father of Anne and me, since it was being spoken of throughout the court.

The Duchess of Guise was highly suitable. Would it be the Duchess? Then there was the Princess of Wirtemburg. There was also Mademoiselle de Rais.

“I wonder which one it will be,” said Elizabeth Villiers. I imagined she did not want it to be any of them. Or if there had to be a marriage that the bride would be ugly and barren. I imagined she was hoping that one day — some time ahead maybe — I was going to be Queen of England.

To me it seemed preposterous and I could not conceive its ever coming to pass. The idea filled me with dismay. But if my father married and there was a son, the household at Richmond would sink into insignificance.

Poor Elizabeth! How sad that would be for her!

Then there suddenly appeared another candidate for marriage into the House of York. This was Princess Mary Beatrice of Modena.

My father had sent the Earl of Peterborough to the Continent. It was said he was to spy on these ladies and to report secretly on them in such a way that none should know the true verdict but the Duke of York himself. But by some means we heard of the reports.

The Duchess of Guise was very short and not elegantly shaped; nor did she appear over-strong and it seemed unlikely that she would produce the much-desired heir. Mademoiselle de Rais? The Princess of Wirtemburg? Fair enough, but in the meantime my father had seen a portrait of the young Mary Beatrice of Modena.

I like to remember that when he made his choice he came first to me.

“She will be your companion,” he said. “Peterborough sent home such a report to me. She is of middle height, which is good, for although I would not choose one who was low in stature, I would not care to have a wife look down on me. Her eyes are gray and she moves with grace. She has a sweet innocence, for she is but a child yet. She is strong and very young. She would bear sons, this little lady. Peterbor-ough reports that, although she is gentle and of great modesty, yet she discourses with spirit. Methinks you will like my little bride from Modena.”

“It is not for me but for you to like her,” I said.

“You are right, but I should like to have my dearest daughter’s approval. She will give it, I know, when she knows that is what I wish. My dearest child, I am going to bring you a little playfellow.”

* * *

SHE WAS YOUNG and very frightened. I liked her from the moment we met. My father was proud of her and must have thought himself very lucky to have such a beautiful bride.